No More Peanuts and Cracker Jack

After reading this article in the New York Times describing one man's experience of eating his way through America's major league ballparks, I am pleased to know that a few of my long-time friends and I are not the only people who appreciate and rank the relative merits (or demerits) of baseball stadium food.

However, I am terribly disappointed that the writer slammed the food at Chicago's Comiskey Park (I know it's not called Comiskey Park anymore, but it always will be to me), as we had always rated this one of the best, if not the best eating ballparks in America.

I guess the culinary expertise vanished with the old stadium's demolition, as baseball cuisine evolved from bratwurst and beer to sushi and spritzers.

My favourite part of Comiskey was the picnic area in left field, where one could eat sausages and fries while looking through the ground-level, wire-mesh covered windows onto the field, often close enough to have a conversation with the left fielder.

New York also disappointed, with lousy reviews for the hot dogs in both stadia. I always thought the dirty-water dogs at Yankee Stadium were better than average (it's the dirty water), but even though I never liked the Mets, I did like their hot dogs. To quote a Sports Illustrated writer in the 80's (playing off the Mets' slogan at the time, "the Magic is back!"), "the magic is back, and it's in the hot dogs."

But the best line in the article by far is this:

In the cramped confines of Wrigley Field’s concourses, I watched a large man, his head thrown back, guzzling spicy curly fries from a cup like they were a beverage.

I think I probably know this guy. . .